


Heroes, Soldiers, Fathers

by Zelos



Series: A Splintered Tomorrow [3]
Category: Captain America (2011), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: 5 Things, 5+1 Things, Blood we choose, Community: avengerkink, Community: avengersgen, Families of Choice, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Male Friendship, Prompt Fic, World War II, surrogate father
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-22
Updated: 2012-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 19:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zelos/pseuds/Zelos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers never had a father.  Colonel Phillips never had a son.</p><p>Five stories from the past, and one from the present; a sketch of relationships over time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heroes, Soldiers, Fathers

**Author's Note:**

> This is an amalgamation for the prompts on avengersgen posted [here](http://avengersgen.livejournal.com/1096.html?thread=2376#t2376) and [here](http://avengersgen.livejournal.com/1096.html?thread=5192#t5192), with the former previously posted onto avengerkink [here](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/7940.html?thread=16489988#t16489988).

**1.**

 

He forgot how to move, in the days after.

Yes, he'd chased a HYDRA assassin across town in bare feet, minutes after he'd changed into another man in a chamber of life and death. His flesh and bones had warped and melted and not-yet cooled into their new mold; he'd still leaped tall fences and careened across cars' rooftops and out-swam a submarine despite the ache in his bones. He had.

Adrenaline and instinct did a lot for a man. But after the rush had faded, after his heart stopped pounding in his ears, he still has to train, to march with the rest of them – and frankly, he didn't know how to do that any better than the rail-thin asthmatic he no longer was.

Growing six inches and 100 pounds changed everything from his centre of gravity to the length of his reach; a lifetime of accommodating for his stride and his height and inability to lift 20 pounds without wheezing had ingrained weakness into habit. This body was capable of so much more, but muscle memory wasn't so easily unlearned. He was like a jockey atop his wild stallion snorting and biting at the reins, all energy and stamina and fierce, indomitable _will_ waiting fit to burst.

Pity he hasn't any idea how to direct that drive.

“ _This_ is the super soldier?” a scientist muttered incredulously, when Steve tripped over his feet on the treadmill for the third time in as many minutes. Howard quelled the man with a glare, but he was _right_ – Steve had dented doorframes, missed chairs he was sitting down on, knocked over and broken so many things (some of them Howard's, making them extremely expensive to replace, he was sure) over the last few days because he didn't know his strength, his reach, or even his height. Some of those things even his old self wouldn't have done; what kind of super soldier _was_ he, anyway?

“C'mon, Rogers,” and Howard extended a hand; he'd meant it as kindness, Steve was sure, but it felt more like pity. Steve flushed scarlet, hot embarrassment flaring all the way down to his toes.

Well, good to know nothing's changed, even when everything has.

 

They'd sent him on the USO tour within days and it got better, sort of, and worse all the same.

He could move a little by then – still not enough, he'd need another 25 years to learn this body, that was only fair. But he'd learned how to run without tripping, stopped hitting himself with his shield, and he only missed his mouth while eating about a third of the time.

The chorus girls were _different_ , at least, all admiration and awe and coy smiles behind polite hands. And wouldn't Bucky have a field day, if he was here; not that he would be, and he'd drag Steve away too ( _c'mon Steve – you, a touring monkey? I'd rather you were back collecting scraps)._

Some days he wished he _was_ back, then hated himself for the thought; Dr. Erskine had given him so much, Howard too, he couldn't even begin to say – but none of them knew him, they just all saw the sickly young man or the Man With a Plan and he was _neither._

He learned to lift a motorcycle and an entire kick line over his head (he'd only dropped them twice, but three of the girls were in casts for weeks). He learned that the cold no longer invited an asthma attack, and hell, it wasn't that cold anymore. He learned to look down to meet others' eyes, instead of up.

He still didn't learn to recognize himself in the mirror.

 

When the USO tour came onto base, it was almost a relief. They'd known Steve Rogers back then, too, and the familiar derision and ill-hidden scorn was at least more familiar than the adolescent adoration for the quintessential American hero.

More familiar, but not quite the same. Before, anyone'd take him to task if he'd opened his mouth; now, no one sniggered to his face – there were upsides to being physically imposing. But his senses had improved, too; he heard the whispers and saw the stares, and he wondered if collecting scraps at home would afford him more dignity.

“Rogers!”

“Yes sir,” snap to attention; he remembered to salute, he remembered that much.

“What's this I hear about you cornering Corporal Grey?” Colonel Phillips' dark eyes stared at Steve; Steve fought the urge to wince. “Intelligence is rationed out by the on-base commander, which last I checked, is me.”

“Sir,” Steve felt his mouth go dry, “I thought – the tour'll be over in a couple more months, and - ”

“No,” Phillips replied crisply, just like Steve knew he would.

“The serum worked.” He swallowed hard, fighting a battle he knew he'd lose. “I _am_ fit for military duty, and I'm more useful here than in a lab.”

“You're too precious to lose until we figure out what's in the late doctor's magic potion.” Phillips's eyebrow twitched, just slightly; it felt odd to be looking down at the colonel Steve'd spent all of Basic looking up to. “Now if I'm not mistaken, you're due on the stage in 15. Get to it, soldier.”

Steve slumped slightly. “Yes sir.” And should he be grateful that Phillips even called him soldier? At least it wasn't 'chorus girl' or 'Tinkerbell'. At least he has that much. It was more than what he'd given him when he was still skinny Steve Rogers, way back then.

Phillips certainly _treated_ him like he was still skinny Steve Rogers, instead of 'princess' from the men or 'Captain America' from the audience on tour. Didn't see any further than that, true, but short of Bucky and Dr. Erskine and maybe Peg – Agent Carter, it's the closest anyone else has been.

He's oddly grateful for that.

 

**2.**

 

After the march back home with the survivors of the 107th, things...changed. Changed quite a bit. The derision was gone, replaced by genuine respect (not adoration, not hero worship). He got invited to sit with others at mess and the medics allowed him to hover by Bucky and Agent Carter had smiled at him, just barely, just a quirk of carmine lips.

Everyone else called him a hero. Bucky, once they'd squeezed the life out of each other in a mutual assurance of survival, called him (loudly, with profanity) an idiot.

Colonel Phillips summoned him into his quarters and called him Captain.

“I'm sorry, sir?”

“Captain. Rogers,” Phillips repeated, staccato and slow, as if Steve was deaf. He snorted at Steve's bewilderment. “I can't have Captain America be Private Rogers, can I?”

Steve couldn't say for sure, but he didn't think this was how promotions generally worked. “It's...a stage name, sir.” He wasn't sure why he was arguing against a promotion, but he felt that he has to set this straight.

“I'm aware,” and Phillips' voice spoke volumes about how daft he thought Steve was being. “I am also aware you disobeyed direct orders, coerced intelligence from a superior officer, coerced a civilian pilot to fly you into hostile airspace he had no business being near, and nearly cost us our entire war by risking yourself and Stark.” A crinkle of eyes that might, on a less weathered man, be a smile. “And in the span of 24 hours, you managed to free nearly 400 men, destroyed an enemy base, and captured the HYDRA weapons technology that Stark had sorely needed. How the hell you managed that with just a handgun and a garbage can lid, I don't know, but achievement deserves its own reward.”

Steve was still gawking; Phillips motioned for Steve to sit. “I talked to Senator Brandt. There were mentions of a Distinguished Service Cross.” He gave Steve a look. “Might've been a Medal of Honour if it wasn't for the brazen insubordination.”

Steve sat down. The world still didn't make sense. “I...didn't do it for the fame, sir.”

“Good.” That was clipped and hard. “The day you do is the day you resign your commission and go the hell home. We don't need soldiers who'd do this for _fame._ ”

“Yes sir,” because really, what else could he say?

Phillips paused, studying him. There was a strange look crossing the colonel's face.

“Having shiny hardware to show doesn't make it less real,” he said finally, a little less severe; Steve has the odd feeling that he'd passed some sort of test. “Show your kid if you ever get to have any. You've earned that much.”

Steve decided that it wouldn't be appropriate to tell him that he wasn't attending the ceremony. Whatever they said, Steve wasn't a _hero_ , certainly didn't feel like one; besides, he's had enough pomp and ceremony during the tours to last him the rest of his life.

“Thank you, sir,” he said instead.

Phillips nodded decisively, as if considering the subject closed. “Go see to your friend; they're still checking out his head. Afterwards, I want you in the debriefing room about those maps you saw...Captain.”

“Yes sir. Thank you sir.”

Phillips stood; Steve followed. He ran double-time towards the infirmary as soon as he was out of the room; as he ran, he thought he felt Phillips' gaze on his back.

 

**3.**

 

The serum didn't afford many weaknesses, most of the time. The boys figured out during training that instead of sandbags, Steve lifted _cars_ ; he could lap them all around the camp and could probably get that damnable flag from Basic the old-fashioned way if they ever made it back alive.

That four-times-faster metabolism was a blessing in many ways, and if morphine no longer helped him, it took a lot more to knock him down so that was mostly okay. But an enhanced metabolism took a lot of calories to maintain, and mess halls or field kitchens weren't exactly buffets. They were called _rations_ for a reason; he'd never asked for more, but that didn't mean Steve didn't _want_.

He hid it well most of the time, after his body had gotten used to a baseline of being underfed. But after a raid, or returning from a mission, soaked in terror and adrenaline and flirting too close with death, it was much, much harder to hide the shaky nausea and sweat on his face. It was easy enough to blend in, immediately post-raid, but much harder when a 20-mile march back to base did nothing but exacerbate the pallor of his skin.

“Rogers?”

Steve blinked back to attention. “Sir?” He hated the faintness of his voice, and hoped no one noticed.

Most didn't seem to. The debriefing had concluded, the other officers rolling up the maps; Phillips studied him across the table, and Steve flushed. The table creaked ominously under his grip, as much from nervousness as from steadying himself.

“Come with me,” Phillips said, and Steve's stomach tightened with dread. But he couldn't say no. He turned to follow, trying not to sway on his feet.

Down the hall, through the double doors, past another checkpoint, another set of stairs...the further they went, the thinner the crowds; very few were allowed entry into the SSR's inner sanctum.

One more set of doors. They could see Howard, mercifully alone, bent over some contraption with his sleeves rolled up.

“Stark!” Phillips called; Howard looked up.

“Colonel,” he greeted, rising to his feet. “Captain – whoa, there!” Howard darted forward to catch Steve as he stumbled and pitched forward; Phillips caught his other arm, and the pair gently lowered the super soldier down against the wall. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve mumbled, willing the room to stop spinning. “Just...need a minute.”

“Be right back,” and Howard hurried away.

Steve dared to glance up at his CO, but the expected rebuke didn't come; aside from a twitch in his brow, Phillips' expression has not changed at all. It was as if he expected this. Steve looked down again, too mortified – and nauseous – to speak.

“Here,” Howard came back with a mug that he handed to Steve.

Steve pushed himself upright to drink, gritting his teeth against the vertigo. He took a careful sip, rolling the liquid over his tongue. Orange juice. Extra concentrated, too – he could feel the undissolved powder on his tongue, tangy and sweet. He sipped away slowly at the drink, mindful of the eyes watching him.

“Sorry, sir,” he finally said, once his breathing had slowed and his heart stopped its rapid thundering in his ears.

“As I was saying,” Phillips began, as if he'd been speaking this whole time, “you'll report to Stark three times a day for additional provisions. Stark and I have tentative times proposed, but you two can arrange the specifics since you know your physiology best.”

“Sir?” Steve said faintly, this time from surprise; Howard took the chance to hand him a (somewhat wilted) apple.

“You think I don't know about you stealing half-rotted garbage from the kitchens?” That didn't come out half as severe as Steve had expected. Phillips' eyes stared into Steve's, mouth a thin line. “I will not have _Captain America_ scavenging the trash like ill-fed vermin.”

“Not many people are allowed in here,” Howard spoke up. There was an ironic smile on his face, soft with a quirk of lip. “If anyone asks, I'm observing our super soldier for the late doctor. That's not even a complete lie.”

Steve stared, gaze flitting between the two, speechless. Phillips crouched down to eye level with Steve, clapped him hard on the shoulder. Steve nearly dropped his mug.

“You may be America's most expensive soldier,” that was gruff, but almost kind, “but you're her only super soldier as well. Don't waste it.”

“But,” Steve finally found his voice, half-gestured towards Howard with his apple. “ _He_ can't remember to eat half the time.”

“Then I guess you'll just have to remind me.” Howard crossed his arms. “The boys won't find out – not from me, anyway. I've had...practice...protecting confidentiality.”

Steve drew a steadying breath. “They will eventually. I do leave base.”

Howard raised a brow. “You'd trust your team with your back, but not with this?”

Steve couldn't really argue with that.

Howard returned to his work, close but not seen, filling the silence with the humming of machinery and the smells of iron and grease. Phillips also rose to his feet, gave him a long, measuring look; Steve deliberately did not meet his eyes as the colonel walked away.

He bit into the apple. It was mealy, but he hardly tasted it past the lump in his throat.

 

**4.**

 

Steve's aware that, super soldier serum aside, the army wasn't the place to be unique. It was a place to conform and obey and serve one's country, though he couldn't deny that his record hasn't exactly been a sterling example of command obedience. But, his brazen rescue of the 107th aside, he tried – most of the time.

Most of the time.

“Steve?”

“Shh. I heard something,” and Bucky went very, very still.

Steve toed on his boots – he was still dressed; Bucky'd caught him looking over maps – and edged quietly towards the door of his quarters. Rumpled covers aside, his bed showed no signs of life. Knowing him, Bucky was probably trying to hold his breath.

The night air slapped him hard in the face; all was quiet outside his door, and for a moment Steve hoped he'd imagined things. Then he smelled smoke, and spotted the ember of a lit cigarette about twenty feet away, held in lined hands far too steady for their age.

He walked over, stood at attention. The chill sinking into his bones wasn't from the cold. “Sir.”

Colonel Phillips puffed out a breath of smoke and watched him with glittering dark eyes. “Sloppy, Rogers.”

“Sir,” Steve began desperately, knowing how flimsy it sounded, “it's not what it looks like.”

“I don't give a damn what it looks like, Rogers; you're on thin ice.”

“Sir - ” It wasn't, it _wasn't_ , but he knew what it looked like. Even the Commandos thought so, only they were too polite to snigger, at least for this. This was a war, and hell, there were no shortages of boys helping each other out with their girls' photos in their pockets; what the hell did it matter, if rumour has it that Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes shared a bed? What the hell did it matter, if it was true?

“Your squeaky-clean reputation can't take the hit,” Phillips said, and Steve bristled, teeth bared in a snarl.

“To _hell_ with that reputation,” because really, why the hell should he care? Bucky had stood beside a guy too stupid to keep his mouth shut and too stubborn to run, held _him_ and nursed _him_ through asthma attacks and bronchitis episodes the docs didn't know if he'd come back from. They'd both been experimented on, but Steve's was much kinder; and if Bucky sometimes needed someone at his back before he could sleep, so what? If he needed someone to wake him from imagined needles and blinding lights and leather straps and iron tables, what the hell did that matter to anyone else? After HYDRA, Bucky has a hard time trusting, hard time with a lot of things; staking Steve's _reputation_ against Bucky's _sanity_ wasn't even a choice.

“You wanna give anyone _more_ fodder about how Barnes is mentally or morally weak?” Phillips sounded incredulous, and just this side of derisive. “And what about you? America's golden boy?”

“He's not _weak._ ” He should shut up, he should, but he just barely caught himself throwing a fist.

“Rumour has it is bad enough,” Phillips said bluntly. “Catching you, on the other hand, is a one way ticket home. Your wholesome reputation might save you – _might_ – but Barnes won't have a prayer. Blue-ticketed and thrown back home, nowhere to work and best friend on the front. That where you want to leave him, Rogers? Who'd share his bed then?”

Steve froze, breath stopping short in his lungs. It was nearly a full minute before he gathered his wits to speak. “It's not what it looks like.”

“I don't _care_ what it looks like,” Phillips snapped, clipped and hard. “I've got the national hero and the best damn sniper this side of the Atlantic. We're losing the war; don't make me lose them both.”

Steve swallowed hard, the gravity of the words sinking in; temper was promptly exchanged for fear. “You won't catch us again, sir.”

Phillips snorted. “Go find Barnes before he's tempted to shoot me, you, or himself. Possibly all three.” He dropped the cigarette butt, ground it beneath one heel. “Dismissed.”

 

Steve opened his door, and Bucky froze, one foot crammed into a boot. His pupils contracted to pinpoints, then relaxed. “Steve?” His voice was tight and raw.

“Yeah, it's me.” Steve closed the door, locked it tight.

“Who – they found out, didn't they,” Bucky'd resumed tying his laces before Steve'd finished closing the door, scrabbling at the floor for his shirt. “Shit, I'll go, I'll go right now - ”

“ _Bucky!_ ” Steve darted over, caught Bucky's wrist, overpowering Bucky's struggles easily. They hadn't wrestled in years, and coming on top felt strange. “Shut up. It's okay.”

Bucky stared back at him, wild-eyed and shaking as badly as he did any nightmare; _he knew_ , Steve realized, and it was like a knife in the gut. Bucky'd known the risks of coming over, saw them when Steve hadn't, and he'd _still_ come over because he couldn't be alone, because he was too scared not to, even if they'd send him home.

“Steve?” Bucky's voice was very small; Steve tugged the shirt out of suddenly limp hands, felt Bucky lean against him as he sat down.

“It's okay,” he repeated softly, pulling Bucky in tighter; Bucky trembled against him, and Steve's grateful in ways he couldn't name.

 

**5.**

 

He'd heard the familiar footsteps behind him, but staunchly ignored them – yet another way he was ill-fitting as a soldier. He busied himself trying to find the words instead, but he was an artist and a tactician, not a writer. _Bucky_ had always been the one good with words, silver-tongued and charming dames left and right.

 _Bucky_. The pen slipped and marred the stationary with another dark splotch of ink; he stared blankly at the mark, his breath aching hard in his chest.

It hurt, more than any wound he's ever suffered in the line of duty, painkillers or no; he'd known it was a possibility – even a _likelihood,_ they were in a _war_ for god's sake, and no battle plan ever survived contact with the enemy. But ever since he'd rescued Bucky, ever since the serum, he had honestly thought...

The footsteps stopped behind him, awaiting acknowledgment. After a long silence, the man finally sighed. “Rogers.”

He couldn't feign ignorance, now, and woodenly rose to his feet; Phillips stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, pushed him back down, genuine sympathy in his eyes.

Another moment of silence, then Phillips nodded at the paper. “I should be writing that.”

“I wanted to. Sir.” He didn't, it was the last thing he wanted to do, and Phillips would do it much better, heartfelt and detached and appropriately worded through long practice. His version would have _credit to the uniform_ and _his country will remember his valour_ whereas Steve couldn't spell James Buchanan Barnes without breaking; Corporal Grey would then type it up and they'd send it off in the mail and then...

Phillips studied the paper, at the one line he'd managed to write. “Sister Catherine Johnson?”

“She ran the orphanage Bucky – Sergeant Barnes - ” His voice cracked; Phillips pretended not to notice. Steve drew in a shuddering breath, continued, “ - and I lived at, when we were younger. We both thought...well, they were always in need of donations, and...”

Actually, Steve originally had wanted to designate Bucky as his beneficiary; Bucky had stared at him incredulously and told him that was a fast-track to discharge. (Bucky'd designated _Steve_ as his beneficiary, back before he knew Steve'd enlisted, and blithely waved off all accusations of hypocrisy.) After arguing social politics and whether either of them was well-off enough on his own benefits, they'd decided to donate the money to Sister Catherine's orphanage; god knew that everyone there could use more books and clothes, and that was _before_ the war efforts started.

They'd updated their paperwork together, way back then, but Steve had – with that blind, hopeful conviction that Bucky had at once admired and made fun of him for – always thought that it'd be just a formality, same as the physical when they'd enlisted. Neither of them had intended on dying.

But in the end, they were all just closet idealists too goddamned cocksure of poetic justice and their own sense of immortality.

“I...” _Should've died instead, it was my fault_ “...was his immediate superior officer, sir, and I know Sister Catherine. I thought...” There were tears welling in his eyes; he willed them back savagely. It was not appropriate to cry in front of one's CO, _was not_ , even if he'd already broken more rules of command obedience than the rest of the Commandos put together. His grip tightened around his pen, fingers white to the tips.

Phillips watched him, then nodded and squeezed his shoulder briefly. “All right, son.” He gestured towards the paper on his knees, marred by splotches of ink and a barely-legible name. “Get Grey to type it up for you later, if you like.”

“Yes sir.” Steve swallowed, looked away. “Thank you sir.”

Phillips studied him for a moment longer, then turned away, pausing only to drop another pen into Steve's lap. Steve stared blankly at the acquisition, then turned to his old pen still in his hand.

His previous pen had long since shattered from the strain, bleeding ink vivid and dark like the blue of Bucky's eyes. Steve swallowed hard, carefully set the pieces down, wiped his hand on his pants. Blue smudged onto olive, staining dark as blood; old words from aged letters echoed in his head, the lazy drawl warm and rough: _Just finished Basic, Steve, you didn't miss much, promise..._

He uncapped the new pen, hesitated, and began to write.

 

**+1**

 

70 years ago, Colonel Phillips led the toast for Steve's wake at a blown-out bar in London.

70 years later, Steve Rogers toasted the memorial grave of the soldiers lost in WWII, but he knocked back the glass with one name in particular, the liquor burning past the lump in his throat.

“Happy Father's Day, sir.”

**Author's Note:**

> The CA: TFA movie has Steve has receiving a “medal of valour”, which I chose as a Distinguished Service Cross. Although the first assumption would probably be the Medal of Honour, my headcanon has Steve receiving his Medal of Honour posthumously after he crashed into the Arctic. One cannot get multiple Medals of Honour after 1917 (other awards are allowed devices, such as oak clusters, to denote additional awards), and I figured he'd get even higher accolades for his sacrifice. The AWOL and brazen insubordination during the rescue of the 107th probably counted against him too.
> 
> Phillips might sound somewhat anachronistic in this, given the homophobic attitudes back then, but I figure any CO who'd say “I'm not kissing you!” has to be pretty cool.
> 
> Blue-ticketed refers to [blue discharge](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blue_discharge), the discharge of choice for commanders to remove homosexual service members during WWII. It's not technically a dishonourable discharge, but the connotation made it so that civilian life was very difficult once back home.


End file.
